ROOSTERS AT DAWN

There is evidence of painted egg in front of the building. Somebody couldn't wait. "Oh boy, egg!" they probably thought, "I haven't seen a chicken in years!" Because, of course, in the Paris of Northern California, chicken is seldom seen running around. I fondly imagine it's different in Paris, France. There must be chickens running around everywhere. Every year dozens of tourists get trampled in the Running of the Roosters.


First smoke of the day.

When I got back, my apartment mate was still asleep in her room. She did Ching Ming over the weekend, and was pooped-out. Expecting that to happen, she had scheduled a day off. Ching Ming involves cleaning the graves, incense, oranges, little cups of wine, plus burnt paper goods, food, and flowers for the departed. And for some people, cemetery selfies.

She emerged after ten to tell me that Southern Food, at its most fundamental, may just be fried ground beef with ketchup, slopped onto soda crackers. She's reading a book about white trash.


Her exposure to the natives of Trailerparkistan is precisely the same as mine; virtually nill. Folks from Arkansas, Missapi, Colorado, and Flurry-da seldom visit here. They can't spell California, and consequently have a hard time locating us on a map.


I find the idea of Paris overrun with chickens quite charming.
Chickens improve almost every place.

Instead of people walking dogs at the crack of dawn, think of how much nicer it would be if they walked their chickens instead.

TOBACCO INDEX


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